


The Lady and Her Hawk

by jbmedallions



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Clintasha - Freeform, Drama, F/M, Humour, Romance, Spies, lords and ladies, medieval era, nobles - Freeform, servant - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbmedallions/pseuds/jbmedallions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a foreigner, forced to leave her native land. He's a soldier, conflicted with his life. What happens when these two meet within the court of England? What happens when they fall in love?</p><p>A romance set in the middle ages. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Foreign Presence

**Author's Note:**

> First fic posted on here so I'm a happy person. :)
> 
> Reviews are very much welcomed so please don't hesitate. I'm always looking to improve. I hope you enjoy the first chapter!

**ONE**

 

_Now that the time has come_

_Soon gone is the day i_

 

“Master Clinton! Master Clinton!”

Clinton Bartolomeu, Seneschal of Darian Castle, sighed and set down his bow. This was the fourth time he had been interrupted this morning and it was grating on his nerves. Whatever it was had better be dire indeed for the servants to keep harassing him. Whoever had called for him now began to pound furiously on the heavy wooden door, the hinges creaking with the force of each heavy knock. A muscle ticked in his jaw and he got up, taking the necessary six long steps to the door and pulled it open with such force his shoulder almost popped out. The knocker, a woman who looked barely past twenty summers, stumbled back, her mouth working silently in surprise. She wore the simple garb of a common servant, the plain linen dress stained with dirt from working in the garden. The hand that was still raised was clean but he could still see tiny patches of dirt as if she had washed them in a hurry. The leather belt she wore was worn and looked ready split apart, if the cracks and tears were any indication. Her hair was pushed back from her face and tied into a neat braid, a scarf of dubious white linen covering her head. All this, he took in within two breaths.

“For the love of God, woman, keep your voice down. It is loud enough to wake the dead.”

She clutched her hands in front of her, eyes apologetic and pleading. “Forgive me, Master, but Lord Ferox has requested your presence in his quarters. You must make haste. He is in a foul mood yet again and has frightened the servants away.”

Bartolemeu sighed, wearily this time. “Do you know the reason why I am summoned?”

“No, Master. Milord has only ordered me to fetch you but he did not give a reason why.”

“Very well then. Go back to your duties.” He thanked then dismissed her, closing the door as she rushed back to the abandoned gardens. Instead of washing up and leaving, he stood there for a moment longer, resting his head on the door. Nicolaus Ferox, the Viscount of Darian. Lord of the Darian Castle and its inhabitants. He was also Bartolemeu's foster father. He closed his eyes, arranging his thoughts then opened them, straightening. The times that Ferox became this irate was when something was very wrong and the man did not like not having things his way. Bartolomeu washed up using the remaining water from his pitcher and left to speak with his lord.

 

No one engaged him in conversation besides a quiet greeting as he made his way through the castle towards Ferox's quarters. He saw no fault with that as word of Viscount must have reached everyone's ears by now. Ferox was never one to stay quiet when maddened. It would be best to hurry and find out what the whole ruckus was about before the servants all abandoned their duties to flee from his wrath. He reached Ferox's room, the guard standing by the door nodding him through with a sympathetic glance. Bartolemeu shut the door behind him then ducked. A wooden goblet cracked against the door where his head had been, clattering on the stone floor and rolling a little ways away from his feet. Calmly, though his body was still tense, he turned around and bowed.

“My lord.”

“Barton.” The word was growled out, anger coloring it red. Bartolemeu – Barton – barely suppressed a sigh at the name. Ferox had tired of speaking his long name and so had shortened it to Barton, a more compact version of his first and last name. He did not dislike it but he would have rather the man call him by his birth name once in a while. Although, he thought, watching a vein throb on the man's dark skin, asking it right this moment might mean his death.

“You summoned me, my lord. How may I serve you?” Barton's voice was quiet with enough inquiry that it did not spark any more of Ferox's temper.

“Read this!” Ferix threw a scroll at him and he caught it deftly in one hand, glancing at his lord before rolling the paper open and reading what was written. It was a good thing Ferox had allowed him to be taught numbers and letters. A requirement, really. His service to Ferox was more than just as a seneschal. He arched a brow at what the words revealed to him. “A bold move, my lord.”

“Bold? _Bold?_ He has no business insinuating himself within William's court.” Ferox's mouth twisted and he sat down abruptly on a stool. “Nor does he need the benefits of such a move. The man has wealth and power aplenty.”

“The more a man has, the more he shall want,” Barton murmured, earning a sharp nod from Ferox. “Perhaps he is looking to gain allies at court. There is talk of several delegates from other kingdoms arriving and presenting William with tokens and gestures of friendship.”

“Not that they aided him when he needed them most. Leeches, the lot of them. And _that man_ is no better.” He muttered several more curses, each one more vile than the last. “Barton!”

“My lord?”

“Have you heard of the Baronessa of Ledyanye?”

“Vaguely. Is she not married to the Blood Baron, Ivan Romanov?”

“Indeed. Although the man has passed through the gates of death, three summers past. She is a widow.”

Barton frowned. “But she holds the title of Baronessa.”

“No children. And the title and lands belong to her.”

“The Blood Baron was a commoner?” He was aghast at the thought. Commoners and nobles did not mingle. Ever.

“A commoner with noble blood,” Ferox said, cold amusement in his eyes. “Bastard born of some whelp of a nobleman's family who was too busy spearing every pretty girl to notice the seeds he was sowing. Sit down, Barton.”

“Yes, my lord.” He sat down at one of the stools closer to the door but angled his back away from it. Years of training had taught him to never allow himself to be exposed to attack. “So this Baronessa. Did she not realise his base born birth?”

Ferox shook his head. “From all accounts, she was very much aware of it. Perhaps that was the reason why she married him.”

“You do not know?”

“No one does. Neither the Blood Baron nor his Lady spoke of it. It was unheard of, of course. They were shunned, effectively shut out of all political discussion and 'polite' society. Well, until the Blood Baron made a name for himself. You can understand their predicament, yes?”

“Defy a man who could and would tear their lands apart or persuade him to have mercy on them with apologies and promises of acceptance. They decided on the latter?”

“Not after a lord spat into the Blood Baron's face and told him he would never humble himself to apologise to a bastard.”

“Fool,” Barton muttered, shaking his head.

“A dead fool,” Ferox said. “They found his body hanging from his castle battlements, naked with his house banner burning beside him. The servants who had resisted were piled beneath his corpse, throats slit.”

“And the ones who did not resist?”

“They were given a choice of serving the Romanovas or another neighbouring land. Most stayed.”

“Brave souls. Were they not afraid he would kill them in their sleep?”

“The Blood Baron may have been many things, Barton, but he was also fair to his vassals. Apparently, the Baronessa had a hand in that fairness, herself. Well and so, the servants stayed and the other nobles stopped shunning them.”

“Then the Blood Baron died.”

“Yes. Which is likely why the Baronessa is now here to visit the King. With Ivan at her side, the Baronessa was formidable but now that he is gone, she is now able to marry another. Likely, she had been pressured to marry one of the noblemen.”

“I doubt she enjoyed that.”

“No, she did not. Stupidity was never her fallacy. The nobles just wanted her lands and her obedience.”

“She fled here to England then.”

“Not immediately, no. She went to the Franks first, hoping they would help her or, more likely, searching for a husband who had no plans to steal her property away. _Then_ she came here.”

“Why?”

Ferox looked unhappy now, his brows drawn deep over his liquid black eyes. “And that, Barton, is the reason you are here. My spies have not found out her purpose here and I am not leaving anything to chance. Not when she is so close to the throne and William.” He pointed a finger at Barton. “ _Your_ purpose is to find out everything about her stay here. Why she came and what she plans to do in the future. It is your task and a very important one. You will not disappoint me.” The last sentence was spoken with a flinty look.

“I will not fail, my lord.” Barton held the man's eyes, steady and direct.

Ferox nodded, his eyes never leaving Barton's. “You will leave on the morrow. Before dawn breaks. For all intents and purposes, you are the escort of Dame Maria, Lady of Hilcrest. She will be my other eyes and ears at court.”

“What is her assignment, my lord?”

“None that concerns you, Barton. All you need to do is find out everything I want from Baronessa Romanova. And before you ask, I have the temporary replacement for your duties here. No more questions. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord.” He knew his duties and he knew Lady Hilcrest would do hers well enough. He trusted in her abilities. “I should make preparations for tomorrow then.”

Ferox nodded and waved a dismissing hand. Barton got up, bowed once then went to the door. Ferox's voice stopped him before he could open it. “A warning, Barton.”

“My lord?”

“The Baronessa is a score and eight summers old but she is purported to be a great beauty. Skin, pale and glowing like pearls, eyes, blue as the Mediterranean sea and hair, a beautiful copper red. And she is deadly as the metal in it's poisonous nature. There are rumours that it was not only her husband's prowess in battle that won him such notoriety. She is sly and she _will_ use her wiles on anyone that may be able to help her. Do not allow her any knowledge of you or Dame Maria. Now go. I must rest for this day wearies me.”

Barton nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He said his goodbyes to the guard waiting and returned to his chambers, ignoring the curious looks from the servants. He had preparations to make for tomorrow's journey.

 

_**¤¤¤** _

 

She was a Romanova and she would bear this humiliation.

A snicker came from one of the women in front of the fireplace and it was all she could do to not leap across the chairs and stab her needle through the little bitch's throat. As it was, her hands were shaking from the rage she held deep inside. The little chits had decided to take apart her hard work while she had been absent from the room and now here she sat, the tips of her fingers red and raw from the needle pricks, attempting to sort out the mess that was supposed to be an embroidered cloak. She had better things to do than this useless work! There was a tiny ripping noise and she looked down, seeing the tiny tear around one of the embroidered tree branches. In her anger, she had pulled the fabric instead of the thread and now it was ruined. Re-stitching would take more hours of sitting and cursing and now, she had had enough.

If those foolish girls wanted a reaction, they would get it. She threw the cloak into the basket beside her and shoved the thread and needle into their little box. The stool had no back but it did not deter her. She crossed her arms, her back ramrod straight and stared over at the group with a cold look. She was patient. They were not. After several long moments, the girls realised she was not budging an inch and tried to ignore her piercing stare. Conversation slowed then eventually died until only a frosty silence filled the room. Even the sound of the needle sliding through fabric was unbelievably loud. Natalia did not move.

“Strangely quiet for a hall. Is that not so, Philippa, my dear?”

Lord Anthony Stark sauntered in with his wife trailing behind him, an exasperated look on her face while a number of older lords followed. He stopped and studied the situation before turning his full attention onto Natalia. “Lovely Natty. Please tell me you did not aggravate the dear girls yet again?”

“Lord Stark.” She stood abruptly and made as if to leave. She did not want to spend more time than was necessary with this man. He was far too sharp and intelligent to see through her. But it was more that his presence was extremely irritating. If she hadn't seen him with other people with the same behaviour, she could have sworn that he attempted to provoke her with every opportunity. She felt pity for his wife, Philippa. “Your presence is a delight but unfortunately I have other things to attend to that need my immediate attention.”

“Ah ah.” He stepped into her path, a small smile dancing on his lips. “If I am so delightful then you should stay a while longer. I'm sure we have many things in common, yes?”

The words were flirtatious but his eyes weren't smiling. Instead, they were thoughtful and she could very nearly see his mind working. On what, she did not know and did not want to. “I must insist.”

“So do I. Ah. Perhaps there is someone who is waiting on you and I am in the way?”

_You are in the way regardless._ “No, my lord. But --”

“But nothing!” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her towards the fireplace, guiding her there. She went unresisting. Like as not, Lord Stark was a powerful man and to decline him again without good reason would have been a slight. If not the man himself, then any number of nobles residing at court would call for her to be punished. She shot the women a cool glance before seating herself as far away as possible without appearing to avoid them. The skirt of her black dress rustled as she adjusted them so they would not wrinkle later. Ivan had died three years ago and she was well within her rights to be rid of her widow's weeds but she had found it was a great deterrent for the amorous young men who tried to woo her into their bed. She had professed sadness and mourning still at her husband's passing and if the lords would graciously leave her be for the time being. Most accepted that. Others didn't. She grimaced inwardly at the memory of one of the more determined men groping her when he had caught her alone. Rutting pig. If a group of ladies had not come by at that moment, the man would have found himself lacking a necessary appendage for future children. Her arm pressed into the small dagger hidden within the folds of her sleeves. She never left her room without it.

A warm hand rested lightly on her shoulder and she looked up to see Lady Stark leaning over with a smile on her face. “Lady Romanova, would you like to accompany me to my room? It seems I have forgotten my needle and thread.”

“Nonsense, Philippa. I am sure there are spare ones lying about that you can use,” Stark said, thumping into his own chair that a diligent servant had procured. “No need to leave yet.”

“I would rather my own tools, my lord. Or are you going to hold me hostage once more?” Her tone was tart but there was an underlying humour beneath it, so cheeky that even Natalia's lips twitched. The reference was to when Stark tried to have Philippa's father agree to their marriage, and when the lord refused, he had her kidnapped. Of course, the woman had been willing but they still needed her father's approval so it was a case of merely waiting. Philippa was dearly loved by her father and Stark's power and influence had to be taken into account as well. It took six long months before he agreed to the marriage by which time, the lady was already three months pregnant. The wedding was a rather quick affair.

Stark chuckled, his eyes warm with affection. “A sharp tongue you have there, my lady. I shall have to see to your punishment later. Now off with you.”

Leaving the room with the women tittering in scandalised whispers and the laughter of the men, Natalia kept a step behind the countess. She felt a slight pang now that the humour of the situation had faded. Ivan had been a lot like Philippa in his personal life. Teasing and laughing. He would always try to make her laugh, or smile at the least. She missed him dearly and his death devastated her. And then those bastard nobles tried to take her lands and Ivan's conquered ones away from her. Her jaw tightened. Never.

“You look ill at ease, Lady Romanova. Is something troubling you?”

Philippa was regarding her with some measure of concern, having slowed down to walk even with her. “Nothing, my lady. And please, call me Natalia. It is a mouthful otherwise.”

“Natalia, then. You may call me Philippa.” Her smile was warm and genuine and Natalia relaxed. Here was a woman who had no air of deceit around her. _Unlike me._

“Philippa. Thank you for rescuing me from that room.”

“I have no inkling of what you mean,” she said, her smiling eyes belying her words. “Now. Have you heard of Dame Maria Hilcrest?”

“The name sounds familiar but I cannot recall ever meeting her.”

Philippa hooked an arm around Natalia's with a scandalised but excited look. “A beautiful woman, she is the rumoured lover of Lord Ferox. She will be arriving here within the next two days! Is it not exciting, Natalia?”

Natalia nodded in agreement, an easy smile flitting onto her lips. Inside, however, a cold knot of worry had formed in her stomach. No wonder the name sounded familiar. Lovers? Yea or nay. But if she was connected to Nicolaus Ferox then it was more than likely that this Hilcrest woman worked for him. Ferox's reputation for being...intolerant of foreigners was notorious and most tried to avoid him because of it. Even here, in the courts of the King, whispers abounded. To that end, she listened intently as Philippa continued to regale her about the supposed trysts that Hilcrest and Ferox had had. It would do well for her if she collected as much information about this woman as possible.

 

Later, when all were abed after a filling meal, Natalia opened a small box from her trunk, having hidden it in the layers of clothing she had yet to wear. She had refused the servants offer of help, preferring to do things her own way, which allowed the box to be kept secret. Making sure the door was barred, she sat down on the bed, her linen shift rustling. She opened the dark mahogany box and pulled out a pressed flower. Camomile, each petal fanning out from the center in a round halo. Her fingers stroked them gently as she allowed calming thoughts to soothe her agitation. Stark had continued his provocation all throughout supper and if it had not been for his wife, she would have stabbed him then and there. Infuriating man!

She sighed and put the flower back into the box, placing it gently over the other items that she valued greatly. The flower had been an apologetic gift from Ivan when he had been months late in returning home. Her mouth curled at the memory. She had given him a sound scolding and he had given her the flower he had picked and pressed on the way home. She had kept it ever since. Returning the box back into its hiding place, she rested her lips slightly against the smooth and polished wood. “Good night, Ivan.”

She got into bed and pulled the covers up before leaning over to blow out the candle. It took her some time but eventually, she rolled over and fell asleep with no dreams haunting her.

 


	2. Unsettling Exchange

**TWO**

 

_Shrouded by the night_

_And by the secret stair I quickly fled i_

 

“There are a few things I would like to go over with you before we settle into our roles, Bartolemeu.”

“Yes, my lady?”

“First, do not speak to me unless it is important. Second, at the end of each sennight, you will report to me whether or not you have acquired any information. Thirdly, befriend the Baronessa --”

“My lady? I was not told by Lord Ferox to do that.”

“Do not interrupt me,” she said mildly. There was a brief silence while the sound of the horses clomping sounded loudly in his ears. He bowed his head in apology. Hilcrest continued, her gaze on the passing fields. “You _will_ befriend her. Nicolaus and I have agreed that since she married a commoner, she will be more amenable to the companionship of another one. You, more specifically. It will help you in your task far better than just standing around as my escort. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. We will be arriving at William's court just before evening. I expect you will be able to manage yourself by then?”

“I will, my lady.”

 

They arrived at their destination as Hilcrest had said they would and the four guards and two servants that accompanied them proceeded to unpack their belongings. Having gone through the interrogative questioning from the Captain of the guard, all that was left was to present themselves before the king. Hilcrest glanced at him. “For this, you will not be needed.”

“I will begin my assignment then.”

She gave him a quick nod and left him alone to make his way to the guardhouses where he would be staying for the duration of this visit. After speaking to the captain, he was given a small room where the only contents were a thin pallet and a chamberpot in the corner. Good enough. It was not different to what his room was like back at Darian Castle, except smaller. Even then, he was surprised they had a room for him.

A knock at the door made him turn around in time to see one of the accompanying guards opening it. “Mathieu.”

“Master Clinton. The evening meal will begin shortly and we are leaving. Will you join us?”

He nodded. “I have to unpack first but I will see you then.”

Mathieu nodded and closed the door. Barton listened as his footsteps faded away before going to his pack and taking stock of his inventory. Three pairs of clothing, all in the same colours of dark brown and grey; an extra pair of leather boots; a small bag of copper coins; the short sword he had brought along; and his bow and arrows. For this occasion, he had taken his shortbow. It was easier to hide than the larger longbow which, while it had a long range, was far too cumbersome and would arouse some suspicion. He was merely an escort so a sword should have sufficed. He put the coin bag, the extra pair of boots and his two change of clothes, leaving the extra one out to change into. He would have preferred to wash himself but he had yet to find a creek or pond nearby and he very well could not call for a bath. Making do, he used the water that was left over from his waterskin and cleaned himself as best as he could. He tucked a small dagger into his boot then gave the room a final glance before leaving for the hall. Perhaps he would finally see the Baronessa.

 

The voices of more than a hundred people in the dining hall echoed in the large expanse of the room. At the end furthest from the doors was the long table, up on the dais, that was set for the higher nobility that included the king, his consort, close family members and special foreign dignitaries. Unfortunately for the king, a bout of stomach pains had caused him to miss the evening meal. Not that it really mattered to her since she was sitting further down from the dais with the other lower nobility. Thankfully, the Starks were sitting with the former table and not hers. While Philippa was a pleasant woman to be around, her husband was not.

Her attention turned to the doors when another group came through. By the looks of them and their coarse outfits, they were guards who were off duty for the night. Her eyes locked with one of them before his companions seated themselves nearest to the door. She turned away and concentrated on her own meal but she could still feel his heavy gaze on her. It was an unsettling feeling and one she disliked. Coupled with the overcooked venison and not quite watered wine, she was beginning to feel a little queasy. She was unused to such blatant regard and especially from a commoner. The man to her left was speaking to her rather enthusiastically, crumbs of food spraying over her hair and clothes. Her skin crawled with disgust. Even the servants back in Russia knew better than to speak with a full mouth. She managed to make it through the second course where they brought out the stuffed pheasants but continuous food being spat at her and the clamour of the hall and that damnable gaze that she could feel boring a hole in her back was more than she could bear. She cleaned her hand, made her excuses and left, trying very hard to not look like she was fleeing.

As she passed the table where the man sat, she glanced over, her eyes locking with his again and the unsettling sensation doubled. She forced her gaze away and continued, leaving the stifling hall and him.

 

Lady Natalia Romanova, Baronessa of Ledyanye, Barton thought, watching her leave and ignoring the sudden thrill when he met her gaze again. She was very different from what he had imagined, even her hair was a far cry from Ferox's description. The torches set around the walls had illuminated the shining copper strands of her hair while the shadows darkened the red hue to an almost breathtaking level. It was bound in a simple braid, the length stretching sinuously down her back to her hips. He murmured a few words in answer when the man opposite asked him a question, his mind still on the lady. He now recognised her but the question now was how to befriend her. And what task Ferox had given Hilcrest. His eyes slid back to the tables at the other end and he narrowed his eyes, watching the dame laugh coquettishly at a knight's jest.

He finished his meal and stood up.

“Leaving so soon, Master Clinton?” Mathieu asked.

“Aye. The ride has left me tired and I want to wake up early tomorrow.”

“Pity. You'll be missing out on the wenches,” one of the other men grunted, his eyes locked on one of the serving maids passing by. Barton's mouth curled in amusement.

“If you have not deflowered them first, Blaise.”

The man chuckled and raised his cup of mead in acknowledgement. “Be off with you then. Your face is pretty enough to draw the lasses away from me.”

Barton laughed, waved at the rest of them and departed the hall, his smile fading as soon as he stepped past the threshold. Nodding at the guards positioned on either side of the door, he made his way through the courtyard. He needed some time alone to plan his next move now that he knew who to look for. It was only a little bit after sunset so leaving the castle at this time would not arouse too much suspicion. If he needed to, he could claim he was meeting his lover. There were more than enough people here that the excuse would be good enough.

The guards at the main gate had a sly smile on their faces as they let him through after they had questioned him like he thought they would. Judging by their slightly indulgent faces, he assumed this happened often enough. If it were him, he would have kept the lovers locked out if they stayed out too late. Rules were rules and one had to follow them. Especially if the king was the one in residence.

It was just coming into spring so the air still had a bite of cold to it but it was bearable if he kept his arms around himself for warmth. He followed along the worn down path that led to the castle gates and, on the opposite side, towards the main road. About thirty paces in, he veered off towards the small copse of trees that slowly merged with the larger forest. Out of habit, he deftly avoided the various sized branches, stepping in between them on the soft grass but the dry leaves that had fallen from the winter's thrall rustled loudly and crackled beneath his feet. He continued, the silence of the forest broken by the leaves and bird calls. After some time, he noticed a trail forming but initially dismissed it as a deer trail until he spotted an obvious impression of a foot. It was too small to be a man's but too big to be a child's. A woman was wandering around in the forest by herself at this time of night was unusual. Perhaps it was a lover's meeting or some such frivolous activity.

For the most part, he ignored the trail although he did follow it since it continued further into the forest. He would just have to change directions once he heard voices. The trail went on for a bit longer until it abruptly ended with no one in sight. He realised it a moment too late but when he whipped his head up in the trees, a dark form slammed into him from above and he fell to the ground, his breath knocked out from his lungs. Before he could move, he felt the sting of a sharp blade just below his jaw where it rested lightly on his skin. He tensed.

“It is a courtesy to announce yourself before engaging someone in battle,” he said mildly, his hand inching towards the rock near his hip.

“This is not a battle and you are the one guilty of lacking courtesy.”

He was stunned. “Lady Romanova?”

The knife pressed deeper. “What is your name?”

“Bartolemeu, my lady.” He abandoned the rock and grabbed her wrist instead, pulling it away from his neck and throwing his weight up and over her to pin her down. He squeezed with enough pressure so that her hand involuntarily released the blade and he snatched it from the ground, sliding it behind his back before she could make a move to retrieve it. In retaliation, she slammed her fist into his stomach and he doubled over, grunting painfully. A mistake. A sharp elbow to his face and he was off her, the pain blinding him as he stumbled to his feet. She took the opportunity to get up herself and made a quick dash towards the direction of the castle but he had recovered enough to run after her. His longer legs allowed him to catch up and he grabbed her from behind, this time ducking as her elbow flew at his face yet again. She struggled and writhed like a fish out of water and it took all his strength and reflexes to keep her from escaping. Eventually, after several mishaps with her elbows and feet on her part and a lot of pain on his, he managed to shackle her wrists with a firm grip and pushed her up against a tree, keeping his body close to hers lest he succumbed to the rather indelicate knee to the groin manoeuvre. He was in enough pain as it was.

“Unhand me, you brute,” she hissed, her eyes spitting icy daggers at him. “Is this how the English treat their guests?”

“No but I have never had a guest who shoved a blade at my throat,” he retorted, shifting his legs so that his thigh took the brunt of a sneaky attack from her knee. “Will you please cease your attempts on my manhood, woman.”

She glared at him, her chest heaving from the earlier exertion and he found his eyes drawn to it. He snapped his gaze back up when he realised what he was doing. He felt his cheeks redden and saw an answering glint in her eyes, an amusement that floated beneath the anger. He cleared his throat but refused to back away. “The forests are dangerous when it is dark and you are alone.”

“Really.” He ignored her pointed look but another flush washed over his cheeks.

“You should have an escort if you wished to take a walk in here.”

“Because I am a woman?”

“ _Regardless_ of gender, my lady. Even a trained warrior would have difficulty fending off an attack in such a place where enemies can hide with ease.”

She was silent for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face. Her body relaxed as she nodded. “You may release me now...Bartolemeu, was it? I will not flee. Again.”

He was a little distracted as he stepped back, releasing her wrists. When the tension had left her body, his own had pressed a bit more firmly against her. It made him entirely uncomfortable in a very painless way.

“What are you doing here anyway?” she asked, oblivious to his discomfit. She brushed at her clothes, trying in vain to get them back into some semblance of tidiness. “I did not realise servants had such long leisurely breaks.”

“Guard,” he said mildly. He reached out and picked out a loose leaf from her hair where it had lodged itself during their scuffle. Barton smiled slightly and presented it to her with a small flourish. “Clinton Bartolemeu, escort to the Lady Hilcrest.”

There was a curious moment when she seemed to freeze, her entire body stiffening while her expression went blank. It was but for a moment though and a few blinks later, she was giving him a small tight-lipped smile. She accepted the leaf and tucked it into her belt.

“I hope that means I am in good company,” she said lightly, smoothly stepping out of his reach and leaning against another tree. She gave her word; she would not run away again. It did not mean she was going to let herself be caught again though. Under hooded eyes, she studied this Bartolemeu man. Not as tall as the men back home but tall enough for her to appreciate. His muscles, and indeed they were muscles if the tight tunic stretching across his chest was any indication, made him seem stocky but there was a solidness to him that somehow was very reassuring for her. Why it seemed so was beyond her knowledge and at the moment she decided to leave that thought for another time. Her fingers brushed the inside of her sleeves, unconsciously searching for her blade but found only fabric. Damn. He still had it. “Will you return my blade to me?”

The amused smile on his face was rather disarming and she felt her lips twitch in answer before she got it under control. It would not do well to fall for his charms considering his association with Hilcrest and Ferox. “If you promise to not stab me with it then I may give it back,” he said, slipping said blade from behind him. He flipped it a few times casually, catching it by the blade without nicking himself in the process. His eyes remained steady on her, a quiet question in them.

She hesitated. While her mission here in England was not morally and legally acceptable, she was feeling reluctant to make a promise with this man when there was a chance she might harm him. It was a dangerous notion. Her stomach churned at the thought that, yes she would harm him if the situation called for it and there was a sour taste in her mouth as she agreed, her eyes dropping down to the blade instead of meeting his own gaze. “If you please.”

He handed it to her, hilt first although he was slow to release it. He was still staring at her and she felt a slight flush crawling up her neck. She felt highly uncomfortable beneath his regard and wished he would stop. Her weapon tucked back into her sleeve, she began to walk back towards the castle. He had other ideas.

“I would like to speak with you for a moment, my lady,” he said, catching her arm in a gentle grip. “You still have yet to tell me your reason for being out here.”

“I do not need to explain myself to you,” she said stiffly, the muscles in her caught arm flexing in discomfit. Being made uncomfortable by anyone made her snippy.

“You are, for all intents and purposes, an outsider to this land. I may be a commoner but even serfs have their pride for their own country. And I am suspicious of your presence as it is.” His hand tightened on her arm, not quite painful but getting there. “Answer me, woman. You are far away from the castle that no one can hear you.”

“Is that a threat, Bartolemeu?” She turned and stared at him, realising belatedly that the arm he had caught was the one with the hidden blade. She mustered all of her dignity and glared at him. “Let go of my arm or I will have you punished for assaulting me.”

“I was not the one who attacked first, my lady,” he shot back, stepping closer. “How do you think they would react when the nobles find out you have a blade secreted upon your person? How many times have you been in the presence of the king, my lady? A foreigner with a hidden weapon.” He had backed her up against the tree again but this time instead of holding her still, he was pushing against her, menace deep in his eyes and his growling voice. His face was close and their breaths mingled. “Will I, the commoner born of this land, be punished instead of the foreign woman with the knife?”

Fear was a useful tool. It could heighten the senses and help a person survive. Right now, fear made her desperate. Panic had set in the moment he had begun speaking of the blade and each word, each step closer, had doubled the fear. The threat he posed was extremely detrimental to her mission but she could not think of anything to extricate herself from this now very dangerous situation. She had not planned on being found out, albeit in a roundabout way, and all she could do was stand there, rigid and numb.

Barton's stomach was a churning mass of disgust. He hated doing this, hated pushing her towards fear. Espionage had never been his strongest ability. He would rather kill a man than pry secrets away from him. He could feel her breaths, short and sharp, brushing against his cheek as she stood against the tree. Each drawn breath made her chest rise up against his and it was driving him near insane. He had to focus. If he could manage to threaten her away from whatever mission it was that she wanted to accomplish here then his time at the court would be short and he could leave as soon as possible. A woman, and especially one of her high birth, would be afraid of one thing only but the very thought of it threatened to make him empty his stomach. Bracing himself, he pressed further against her and felt, rather than heard, a whimper escape her. His eyes snapped to her face and he saw her eyes wide and staring at a distance beyond his shoulder. He would have turned to see the new threat, if there were any, but the expression in her eyes were more resigned than hopeful.

It angered him. That look meant that she had experienced something like this before and judging by the way she had pressed her lips together to keep quiet, it had been done in secret where no one had heard her. Like now. His breath hissed through his teeth and he jerked back, stomping towards the far side, all the while cursing himself for even thinking about what he had planned to do and cursing Ferox for putting him in this situation in the first place. He was a soldier! Not a spy. Court intrigues and information gathering were not his ideal job and he hated this.

He stared at the tree in front of him blindly, his fists clenched by his side. “Go,” he said gruffly. “I do not care about your reasons any more. But I suggest you make certain no one is following you next time or else you will be in trouble.” He was making a mistake and he knew it but he was helpless to stop it. “But be warned, my lady. I will not have blood shed by your hands while I am here. I will make sure of it. Now go.”

There was a brief pause in which he could hear her steps coming closer. A warm hand rested on his shoulder and then he heard her disappearing quickly through the trees. He released the breath he had been unconsciously holding and closed his eyes. God help him.


	3. Meddling Two

 

_"So that it seems to me it does him little honour_

_To wound me with his arrow, in that state,_

_He not showing his bow at all to you who are armed"_

"Are you well, Natalia? You look quite flushed." Philippa looked at her with concern. They were in the garden sitting on one of the few benches available. The bright sun and cool wind were the reasons that prompted Lady Stark to invite her on a small walk of the gardens and she and Natalia had been discussing the various flowers that England had that Russia did not.

"Quite fine, Philippa. The sun is so strong today, you see," she replied weakly. Natalia patted her cheeks and tried in vain to force the flush to disappear. Conversing with Philippa was not tedious but sometimes the woman babbled a bit too long on one topic and Natalia would let her mind wander to work through the time. Unfortunately, what her mind had decided on was uncomfortable and highly unwelcome; Bartolemeu's face and their encounter had flashed through her head. That, however, had not been the reason for her red face. She had a good memory. Too good. It had been more than a week since but she could still feel his hard body pushing up against her and while at the time, she had been more concerned with being found out, now that she had time to actually sit and think about it, the tactile memory was very much wreaking havoc on her senses.

She let out a silent gasp as Philippa laid a hand on her elbow. Her heart thudded in her chest and she realised ruefully that she had been drifting off again. It was disconcerting how easily the thought of him made her forget her surroundings. She gave the other woman a more genuine smile to wipe away the concern in her eyes. "Forgive me. It seems I cannot concentrate today."

"Is something troubling you?" Philippa asked. She had yet to remove her hand but Natalia did not mind. She was wary of people touching her but she was comfortable with Philippa. It was hard to dislike a woman who could handle Stark so well. "You have been alternating between blushing and sighing and, I must confess, it is a little worrying."

"And why is that?" Natalia arched a delicate brow but her lips curved in amusement.

Philippa returned the smile. "You are a very strong woman and I do not think sighing and blushing like a maiden with her first love is something you do normally."

The Lady Star expected a sharp retort for her teasing and in fact, Natalia expected it too. Instead the small blush that had been gradually fading away returned in full force and she had to clap her hands over her cheek, they were so hot. Her eyes dropped in mortification and she waited for the other woman to bombard her with questions. They never came. She peeked up and found Philippa looking out towards the rose bushes, her hands folded in her lap in a demure pose. It was a mercy. And a reminder that Lord Stark's wife was a very considerate person. Then again, compared to him, everyone was considerate, even the executioner. At least the man did not taunt the prisoners. Natalia straightened and stared in the same direction as Philippa, both sitting quiet and letting the sounds of everyday life become their world.

It took some time but eventually, Natalia spoke, her voice barely audible. "Not love."

"Not love as in you are unsure it is or because you are not in love?"

"Both."

Hesitation. Then, "Ivan?"

Natalia's hands clenched together, her knuckles turning white. Ivan was still a sore subject for her, a festering wound of grief and loss. "What I had with Ivan was based more on love of a friend, gratitude and loneliness than any romantic interest. At least on my part. We needed each other."

"But you did love him," Philippa said gently. Natalia nodded, her throat tight. For all her strong will and determined outlook on life, she was still human with human emotions. Philippa rested her hand on Natalia's arm for a brief moment then withdrew it. "What was he like?"

She released an unsteady breath and pressed her wrist at the corner of one eye. Philippa tactfully returned her attention to the flowers.

"Kind," she said simply, her gaze distant as she remembered her dead husband. "Honourable, despite what his enemies say. There were no secrets with him. He wanted truth even if the truth was something he disliked." She shot Philippa a small look. "He was not always gentle in bed but he was more than considerate enough when it counted. He was always attempting to cheer me up whenever I was upset. It sometimes worked, sometimes not. He tried."

"I think I would have liked to meet him," Philippa murmured. "He sounds like a lovely person."

She smiled, wryly. "He would have blushed if he heard you call him lovely."

Philippa's chuckled. "I would very much have liked to meet him." A pause. "Natalia, the last thing I wish to do is pry but it has been three years. I do not think Ivan would begrudge you another love."

"It is not that. I know it cannot be love because it had taken me months to even form a friendship with Ivan. I am not the type to suddenly fall in love like one of those silly ladies in court."

"I do hope I am the exception since I married my first love."

"And I thank the Lord and his saints for that every day. You have saved the purity of all maidens everywhere."

Philippa gave her an amused look. "Most people believe Anthony beds a serving woman every day. You do not believe that?"

"I believe many things about Lord Stark. And since I have been unfortunate in travelling with him for the duration of the journey to the royal court, I find those beliefs are true. Nonetheless, I have seen him with you often enough that to believe that he would be intimate with anyone but you, my lady, would be a foolish thought indeed. He adores you far too much."

The last was said with more than a little amazement and Natalia grinned when the other woman laughed, the sound echoing delightfully across the garden. After that, both women chattered about trivial affairs, bemoaning the incessant need to hold a banquet every night and sharing stories about the various lords and ladies in attendance. The latter was mainly from Philippa since the woman had spent the most time here and Natalia soaked up all the tidbits of gossips and rumours associated with them. All information was worth hoarding, no matter how mundane it seemed.

And besides, she preferred to not have her mind wandering back to that man. He was someone she should be wary of but not obsessed by.

"You are the one who arrived with Lady Hilcrest, yes? No need to stand either."

Bartolemeu looked up, his face creasing into a frown before recognising the speaker. Lord Stark. He lowered his gaze, not out of deference but from a lifetime of deferring to his superiors. And this man was very much his superior. Still, he could not help himself but to poke at the man. He had a feeling the gesture would be taken in good faith.

"I was one of many, my lord. You may be mistaking me for one of the other guards, perhaps."

There was a faint chuckle. "No mistake, good man. You were the only one that the Dame had sent away rather than accompany her on presentation to the king. Interesting, that."

Bartolemeu's hand tightened on the arrow he had been fletching. He managed to keep his voice even as he continued with his work, pushing the feather tightly into the small slit he had made. "Lady Hilcrest does not care for my presence, my lord. It is unsurprising if she preferred me away from the court as much as possible."

"Indeed. My wife has that attitude whenever we are here." A sniff of mock hurt. "It pains me greatly that she believes me incapable of playing well with others."

He grinned, face still downcast. Setting aside the casual suspicion from Stark, he had to admit the man was a good comic. "With all due respect, my lord. You have a reputation for not playing well with others," he murmured, setting down the finished arrow and beginning on another. "They say you are a difficult man."

"Is that so?" Bartolemeu heard a small scuffle then Stark's face came into view as he crouched down beside him with watchful eyes. His gaze was dark, twin pools of liquid obsidian that had playfulness in them. Bartolemeu regarded him with a steady, unblinking gaze. His hand inched towards the fletching knife that was balanced on the wooden stump beside him. "My lord?"

"Clinton Bartolemeu. You are the adopted son of Lord Nicolaus Ferox. Unless he has a blood heir, you shall inherit his estates. You are also his Seneschal at Castle Darian. Your parents are dead, killed in a raid when you were but a child and your brother died protecting you from the very same raiders two years later. You are a master archer, able to shoot a target far beyond that of a normal person and in the most unusual of places. You have also been commanded by Ferox himself to accompany Lady Hilcrest on her journey to be presented before the king; you have also been replaced as seneschal for the time being." A pause. "Please. Any time you wish to interrupt you are welcome to. Unless I am correct, of course?"

No wonder Ferox despised this man, Bartolemeu thought as he tried to keep his emotions from spilling onto his face. Spend mere moments within his company and anybody would be tempted to stab the man. Repeatedly. He tilted the arrow he was holding until the tip, with the new arrowhead, pressed delicately against Stark's throat. Dark eyes gazed back at him in unwavering amusement.

"I shall assume that is a yes," he said affably, his lips stretching into a grin. "Now now, let us be cordial. I have no wish to quarrel with you."

"You poke sharply at wounds that have healed, my lord," Bartolemeu said quietly. "That is provocation and always end in quarrels whether or not we wish them existence."

Stark squinted for a moment before his expression cleared. There was an unexpected apology in his eyes now. "Then I am sorry to have done that, Master Bartolemeu. I had only wished to prove my knowledge to you."

Bartolemeu stared at him incredulously. He lowered the arrow since it was unlikely that Strak would attack him. A gut instinct. "You have fine way of showing it, Stark."

"Pepper says it in a more insulting tone and uses delightfully scandalous choices of words," Stark said, grabbing a small chair set against the wall and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Pepper?"

"Ah. Philippa. My pet name for her. She claims to hate it but I have seen that twinkle in her eyes. Stubborn woman."

"A stubborn woman for a stubborn man. Begging your pardon, my lord."

"Indeed."

They shared a laugh.

Bartolemeu continued to finish fletching his arrows while Stark poked and prodded at his various tools on the ground. It would normally have irritated him but the man kept out of the way and knew when he needed a certain tool. Soon enough, his arrows, or the ones he had planned on working on, were finished and he collected his things, placing them carefully inside a well-oiled leather bag. He said his polite goodbyes to Lord Stark and made to leave but Stark stopped him.

"Before you go, Bartolemeu..."

He turned around. Stark had a hard look on his face as he pinned him with a gimlet stare. "If you are here to harm my wife, my children or my own person, there is nowhere that you can run and hide that I, and my hunting dogs, cannot find you."

Bartolemeu stared at him then bowed formally. "My lord will not need to call upon his hunting dogs for I am not here to harm your person or your wife's. Have no fear of that."

"So someone else then."

"I cannot say, my lord."

Stark gave him an appraising look, his eyes still hard. He nodded tersely before breaking out into a small smile. "Very good. I would hate to lose someone I would be good friends with."

"That remains to be seen, my lord."

"As you say. But remember, I always have my way. Is that not why Ferox hates me?"

For the second time that day, and towards the same person, Bartolemu had to gape. Was the man omniscient? Stark laughed abruptly and he realised the words had been spoken aloud. A faint flush crawled up his neck.

"No, no, that knowledge comes from experience. Although it would be fun, yes?" Stark shook his head and started towards the castle doors. "Another thing, Bartolemeu," he called as he paused briefly. "You are a very bold soul to toy with Natty. Very much a widow spider, that one. I hope you survive the encounters, as it were."

He disappeared around the corner, laughing, as the flush deepened on Bartolemeu's face. He spun around and made his way quickly back to his quarters. He put the arrows on the small table he managed to acquire a few days ago, an acquisition that took some time to persuade the head guard to allow. He sat down, hard, on the only stool in the room and rubbed his face, still feeling the flush on his cheeks. Damn Stark to hell and back. Not only was it mortifying that Stark believed he was engaging in...intimate affairs with Romanova, he was more than a little worried at how easily Stark had come to the knowledge of them meeting at all. The only people he was aware of that knew about himself and Romanova leaving the castle were the guards and he had made sure that they were unaware of what had transpired in the forest. None of them had known he had met with the Lady.

If he were Hilcrest, he would take the opportunity to exploit the rumours so that he could keep an eye on Romanova but as it was, he was already very uncomfortable with the task at hand. He sighed. Whatever it was that Lady Romanova was here for, it was up to Bartolemeu to find out and hopefully waylay any insidious intentions. No matter the hesitation and no matter how he felt about her.

"The joys of my life," he muttered.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Philippa smacked her husband's arm, giving him an arched look. "No games, Anthony. Did you speak to this Bartolemeu man?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And what? He was a quiet man. Very much the intense personality with his handsome face and sharp eyes. Much like myself."

"In which realm? Anthony, please, this is important. What did he say?"

Stark sighed and leaned back in his chair, regarding his wife with inscrutable eyes. "Why are you so concerned with Natty?"

"Stop calling her that," Philippa scolded. "She hates that name."

"Well and so, I will not call that to her face. So?"

She sighed, her fingers tapping restlessly. "There is so much sadness in her eyes, Anthony. It hurts to see such shadows in the eyes of one so young."

"You are not that much older than her, darling," Stark said blandly, earning him a smile and blush.

"You know what I mean."

"I do. But Pepper, we cannot involve ourselves in this too much. Bartolemeu is Ferox's adopted son."

Her gaze sharpened. "And therefore his eyes and ears." She mulled it over for a moment before sighing. "What does he want this time?"

"Nothing apparently." At her disbelieving stare he nodded. "No lie. I confronted Bartolemeu about it and he said he was not here for us. Much as his taste in adopted fathers offend me, I find myself trusting his word."

"Anthony! I cannot believe you confronted him with that knowledge. Were you alone when you spoke with him?"

Stark looked at anything but her, his shoulders hunching when she glared at him. He could wait her out, not pleasantly, but he could do it. After a moment of seething anger from the other side of the table, his wife breathed deeply and relaxed.

"Setting aside your utter foolishness," she began, her words cutting, "what are we to do with Natalia? Shall we tell her that Bartolemeu is not what he seems?"

"Philippa," he said gently. "I believe the Lady Natalia already knows."

"How so?"

He paused, pouring the two of them a cup of water before continuing. "When I was with Bartolemeu, I happened to see a bruise on his neck. Strangely enough, it was in the shape of a hand. Roughly the same size as Natty's."

"How can you be certain," Philippa asked, frowning. "There are many women with the same size hands."

"My dear, the man is Ferox's son. Do you really believe any normal person, and a woman at that – no offence intended, my love – would be able to move past his defenses to bruise his neck?"

Philippa was silent, her mind whirling, remembering the journey they had made from the Norman city with Natalia in tow. "The tavern in Fontaigne..."

"Where she laid flat three men of burly countenance. With a mere dagger."

"I do not care about that," she finally said, her face set in defiance. "Natalia has not harmed us and I cannot believe she would do so now. If she had wished us harm, she would have done the deed on the journey here."

"We were heavily guarded then," Stark reminded her, a little upset because his wife was. "She would have wanted to escape with her life."

"And we are not here," she inquired.

He sighed, knowing that to argue further would have him banned from the bedchamber. And what she said was true enough. Perhaps Natty was here for something else.

"Very well. You have won this bout, my dear, but be assured we will be returning to it later."

"Good. I shall win the other times, too."

"Stubborn woman," he said affectionately. He smiled wide now, a world of mischief in his eyes. "Now, lovely, shall we decide on how to proceed with both Natty and Ferox's son romancing each other?"

"Old gossip."

"You began it and now I am facilitating it. Join me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading it this far and for the reviews. :)
> 
> This chapter doesn't have them talking to each other much because I wanted them to start bonding with other people. And yes, Stark is a total busybody. There is a plot, I swear. It will begin in the next couple of chapters and we'll go from there. I apologize for any mistakes and yes, still taking liberties. XD
> 
> Oh and to help remember who's who (although I have a feeling it's obvious but still):
> 
> Nicolaus Ferox - Nick Fury
> 
> Maria Hilcrest - Maria Hill
> 
> Clinton Bartolemeu - Clint Barton
> 
> Natalia Romanova - obvious
> 
> Philippa Stark - Pepper Potts
> 
> Anthony Stark - Tony Stark
> 
> The song used is Trovommi Amor – Mediaeval Babes


	4. Comfort In Winter

_And with a beck ye shall me call._

_And if of one that burneth always_

_Ye have any pity at all,_

_Answer him fair with yea or nay. i_

 

Bartolemeu regarded the courtyard with mild interest. He had been sparring with one of the guards when some of the servants had rushed through the guards' training area, a scowl on their faces. He had given the other guards a questioning look but they had shrugged, also unaware of what was happening. It had not been long before the Captain of the Guard had matched in with a ferocious scowl of his own and barked out orders. He had needed a few guards to carry in the luggage of the newly arrived guests and if no one volunteered then he would pick at random. Bartolemeu had been curious about the sudden activity so he had volunteered. The other two had been forced to join him.

They had arrived to chaos. Three carriages, far too many horses to pull them and more than three obnoxious noblemen standing to the side, giving imperious instructions to the servants on how to retrieve their belongings from the sagging roofs of the carriages. He studied them, trying to determine whether or not they were a threat then dismissed them. Merely colourful peacocks with their voluminous fabrics and bejewelled fingers. He snorted. He had met women who were more manly looking then these three.

"Snorting is a very rude thing to do, especially at new guests who have only arrived."

"Blatantly ignoring me for the past month is also very rude." His shoulders were tense despite the light tone he was using. Damn her voice. The husky tones coupled with her accent made the hair on his neck rise with a slight thrill.

"I do not need to explain myself to you," she said although there was no malice in her tone. She stood close by, no more than three handspan apart from him and he wondered at that.

"No, you do not," he agreed complacently. "But it does not ally my suspicions about you."

She remained silent, watching the bustling servants. Perhaps trying to formulate a response that would not condemn her further. He waited patiently, content with just letting her muddle through whatever it was she was thinking about. They were standing away from the courtyard, under one of the small arches that lead to a different area of the castle. It was out of earshot of the people in the courtyard but Bartolemeu doubted anyone could hear them over the shouting and general unpacking noises accompanied by arrivals. The Lady made a small sound and he glanced at, seeing her lips twist in a slight purse. Following her eyes' direction, he found himself regarding Lord Stark. The man was grinning their way while his ever-present wife shot them an apologetic look. He liked Lady Stark. The few times she had passed by him in the corridors she had greeted him with a warm smile. A little disconcerting since he was unused to such friendliness from nobles but otherwise, it was a nice feeling.

A sharp gasp of dismay from the Lady made his head swivel around to stare at her. Her face was pale, much more than her usual tone, and a spike of alarm. The fear in her eyes did not help. “My lady? Are you all right?”

“I-I must attend some concerns that I have forgotten.” With those parting words, she spun around and left, no _fled_ , the courtyard. It was as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. He glanced back towards the Starks but they had disappeared but he was not worried. It was unlikely that the culprits for such a reaction from Lady Romanova were them. He felt his hackles rise, an uneasy feeling washing over him. His eyes slid over to the new arrivals, instincts telling him that they were the ones to blame. One of the men, a white fur coat wrapped around his thick body was staring in the direction that the Lady had disappeared. Bartolemeu narrowed his eyes. Something unexpected was happening and he did not like it one bit. The man met his gaze and sneered. He wanted to punch those little teeth out. As it was, he spoke briefly to the other two, turned around and left, following after Lady Romanova. He needed to speak with her.

 

No, no, no. How could they have known where she had run to? Natalia dodged several servants bustling around – why are they busy all of a sudden, she thought acidly – and very nearly shoved aside a man coming down the stairwell. All of them gave her strange looks but she ignored them, needing to hide, needing to get away, far away from those men as possible. They would ruin every effort she had made given half the chance and she could not risk it. Her panic doubled. Where would she go?

The door to her chambers loomed up ahead and she quickened her pace. She would pack and leave. Make her excuses or whatever then try to join the Starks another time. Just as she was about to open the door, someone grabbed her from behind and she lashed out automatically, a scream lodging itself in her throat. A grunt and then she was released. The hidden dagger came out and she made to stab her attacker.

“Damn it, woman,” came a muffled grunt as her assailant caught the dagger. At the same time, he opened the door behind her and shoved her through, following her as the door slammed shut behind them. “Stop fighting me. I mean you no harm.”

She froze, gasping in harsh breaths and stared at Bartolemeu. “What were you thinking?” she snarled, relief and a growing anger making her words sharp and cutting. “And what did you expect I would do? Grabbing me from behind like that.”

A scowl flickered across his face. “A knife in the throat was not what I was expecting.”

“You already knew about the dagger,” she pointed out, moving back until there was plenty of space between them. Her heart was racing and her body tense, ready to flee or fight at a moment's notice. “What are you doing here, Bartolemeu.”

He gestured at the chair near where she was standing. “Sit down, Natalia, before you collapse. It would be pointless speaking to an unconscious body.”

That pricked her temper. How dare he! “Curb your tongue, servant,” she spoke coldly, refusing to take the seat. It was now a matter of pride and, she thought mulishly, she did not want to see satisfaction in his eyes at her compliance. “You overstep your boundaries.”

“And I have already told you why I would be excused for it,” came the curt reply.

“It does not mean you have the right to act like a boor around me!” She clutched at the dagger still in her hands in a tight grip, wanting to very badly stab his body in a highly unpleasant place. If he let down his guard for one moment...

“Cease your plotting, woman,” he ordered, moving closer. “And do not try to attack me again.”

“You are not worth the effort,” she retorted, pushing the dagger back into it's hiding place. “And you would not know a plot if it cracked over your bedamned head.”

“You are in a mood today,” he commented, stopping a few feet away from her. He was in reach of an attack, yes, but they both knew who was quicker. “Mayhap it had something to do with our new arrivals?”

For just a tiny moment, her eyes flickered away before regarding him with a haughty look but she knew he had caught it when his eyes narrowed slightly. “You presume a lot.”

“And you are evading the question. Answer me.”

She stared at him defiantly. If he thought she would answer every single question he asked then he had better be prepared for a long wait. She was no one's, and especially this man's, servant and she would not be ordered about. When she answered, it would be on her terms. The memory of the incident in the forest flickered through her mind, reminding her that she had very nearly confessed from sheer panic. She shoved the thought from her mind, unwilling to admit how easily he had managed to upset her.

“Natalia...”

“I did not give you permission to call me that,” she said stiffly. “And do not give me that tone of voice. I am not a child.”

“You are acting like one,” he rumbled, stepping closer. She fancied she could hear his heart beating as she stared at the vein throbbing in his temple. Her hand inched back into her sleeve, the blade brushing against her fingers as she searched it out once again. It may have been a mistake to put the knife away, she thought, refusing to back away as he moved one final step. His chest brushed against hers and she stifled a gasp when the muscles in her stomach seized unexpectedly. It was not unpleasant but it did make her body flush with a cold heat. She watched as his eyes flickered over her likely red cheeks before darkening. A lump formed in her throat and she worked to swallow it.

“You are standing far too close,” she whispered, her soft breaths brushing against his face. That damned memory floated through her head again and she realised they were caught in the same position as before. The same fear echoed through her mind. “Stay away.”

Instead of adhering to her wishes, he stayed where he was, his eyes boring into her with their intense blue gaze. It was mesmerising. She felt herself tilting forward in a subtle sway. And if she were not mistaken, he was, too. There faces were so close now, it would only take a small movement for their lips to brush. But he spoke instead.

“I will stay away if you answer my question.”

It was an abrupt reminder of what should _not_ be happening and she sucked in a quick breath and wrenched herself away, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger. She stomped over to the window and stared outside, trying to regain control. Calm, she thought. Calm your thoughts. She practised the breathing exercises that Ivan had taught her, breathing slow. Bartolemeu, for a mercy, did not interrupt immediately but she had a feeling he was merely curious at what she was doing. It lasted all of ten breaths before his deep voice sounded behind her.

“The answer.”

She whirled around, her fury flaring to the forefront once more. Enough! She was the Baronessa of Ledyanye and she would not be treated thus.

“The answer, Bartolemeu? The answer?!” She stormed over to him and pushed hard against his chest. He did not budge at all but merely looked at her. It fanned the flames of her anger and she pushed harder before clenching fistfuls of his tunic. “Here is my bedamned answer: yes! Yes, it is they who have put me in my 'mood' as you so eloquently put it. Yes, it is they that have caused such an upset for me!”

“Natalia,” he began, his eyes a little wide at her outburst.

She shook her head violently, hands still clenched deeply over his chest. “Oh no. I am answering your question and then some and you will _not_ interrupt me. I am going to tell you why I reacted thus, because I know that you will ask me again and bully me again to find the answer. I am sick and tired of being stared at and studied like a vile and unnatural creature that has appeared upon your arm. Do you think I enjoy this? Enjoy being treated like this?” She stepped away, releasing his tunic and began pacing. “You say I am suspicious? You say I am a danger?” She whirled around and stared at him with furious eyes. “Tell me, Clinton Bartolemeu, if you were chased out of your own lands through no wrong of your own and then forced to enter into another kingdom because it is either that or suffer the fate of so many homeless noblewomen wherein they must sell their own bodies to survive, what would you do? Would you merely sit and smile and pretend that you are safe? This blade,” and she pulled said blade from her sleeve, brandishing at him with short and sharp stabs, “is the only thing that has kept me safe thus far from those wandering hands of the so-called noblemen. How dare you stand there and judge me when all I do is try to survive? How dare you!”

The last words had been shouted and the silence resulting from it was a deep and terrible one. They were both staring at each other, her with seething anger, and he with a troubled look. She eventually turned away and sat down at her dresser, the blade flung down with a clatter. She was tired. Tired of this, tired of him and above everything else, tired of what she had been ordered to do.

“Natalia.” His voice was hesitant, as if he were about to ask something.

“Get out,” she said, without turning around. His damn questions again. “I answered your question so leave me be.”

“If I had experienced what you had experienced then, my lady, I would not have survived. I would have struck out and be struck down myself for such a transgression. As it stands, your current presence right now is but an indication of your sheer willpower to survive and I respect that,” he said quietly. “And I apologise deeply for the disrespect I have shown you.”

Her eyes burned at his words. Damn him. “A little late for regret, do you not think so? You have made your position very clear.”

When he finally left, she buried her face in her shaking hands. So close. Too close. This was not what she had planned to happen. She pressed her hands tighter against her face, willing the shakes to leave her. She could not break down now. And she could not flee, either. It would be far too suspicious and had she not given into her instinctual fears, she would have realised it sooner and the whole situation just before would not have happened.

Someone knocked on the door but she ignored it, hoping whoever it was would go away. The little scene with Bartolemeu had left her spent, old wounds she had hoped to keep closed having sprung open once more. And she could barely acknowledge that intimate moment between the two of them. Right now, she was barely keeping a hold of herself; it would push her beyond the brink. The knock came again, more insistently this time. Again, she ignored it.

“Open up, Natalia, little Natasha. Are you refusing to meet with an old friend?”

Her heart stopped for a brief moment before resuming with thunderous beats. She got up and rushed to the door, flinging it open then stared at the man beaming on the other side. His was a familiar face.

“James,” she breathed, breaking into a wide smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem is Madam, withouten many words – Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder


End file.
